


Dreams

by quicksparrows



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 14:37:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13169016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quicksparrows/pseuds/quicksparrows
Summary: At first, bleeding into his mind filled her with discomfort. Then, watching him palm himself under the covers, she found herself surprised to feelcuriosity.





	Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> What if the Force connection could latch onto a dreaming person? :')

 

⁌⚔⁍

 

 

The rains of Ahch-To overstay their welcome too soon.

Even just weeks ago, she'd rattled the last drops from her canteen and wished to be doused in water, as she had done every day, as far back as she can remember. How lovely it would be to experience rain, to have a great sheet of water block the heat, instead of counting the hours until the reprieve of sunset. How relaxing it could be to bathe in clear, cool water, instead of scraping together resources to buy a little oil to scrub her skin with. Now, having been drenched several times by the nightly rains, she's had second thoughts about how much she enjoys being wet.

Then there's the danger of it. More than once today she has slipped on the wet stone stairs and slick grassy slopes, saved only from embarrassing bruises on her backside by... saved by _what,_ exactly? The Force? The Force has granted her more sure-footedness, yes, but it hasn't granted her grace, or saved her from pinwheeling her arms around as her footing threatens to leave her. It certainly hasn't spared her from Master Luke's gruff little chortles, either.

Perhaps worst of all, however, is that the rain feels impossible to escape. Even after she's peeled off every bit of soaked clothing and patted herself dry, the _cold_ of it lingers on her skin. She would have slept poorly even in the driest of weather, but now she's chilled to the bone, and with wet clothes to boot. It feels vulnerable to be unclothed, even on this island of fishwives and its lone dispirited Jedi, but her only chance to chase off the chill is to crawl into her cot, stripped nude so that she can cocoon into her blanket.

And she's right to feel vulnerable. Any moment now, Kylo Ren could glow into her line of sight, his presence as pervasive as the cold.

But still, cold is cold. With her hair gradually unsticking itself from her scalp and her fingers and toes stiff, Rey curls as deep into her blankets she can manage. She tucks her fingers between her clamped thighs in hopes of warming them, hunches her shoulders, and in the fetal position, she tries to sleep.

 

⁌⚔⁍

 

He drifts into her head when he's getting ready to bed down.

At first he ignores her, moving around his quarters with a toothbrush sticking out of his mouth. He shucks off layers of clothes with the casualness fitting for his sterile, controlled environment. His tunic comes off, his head momentarily caught in the collar while he fumbles to pull the rest of it off. (His abdomen flexes as he does, and that muscle over his ribs ripples, too; she wonders what it’s like to eat enough to achieve such a vain physique. She wonders if she would look so fit with some training and decent meals with her.) She feels relieved when the unclothing stops at the waist, spared the truth of whether the rest of him is so similarly pale and birthmarked.

He brushes his teeth and combs his hair as if he doesn't have a psychic audience, her presence probing at him through space. Rey remains curled up in her woolly cocoon, the edge of the blanket pulled up to her nose. She watches him check himself in a mirror, briefly appraising his fresh scars and the dark circles under his eyes, and then he turns to unbutton his trousers.

She holds her breath.

“Are you shy?” he asks. 

For once, it’s not sneering or simpering, not the way she’s well-used to being spoken to. It’s a genuine question, veering towards simple statement of fact. He isn’t shy, that’s for certain. He seems to have a very good sense of who he is, every inch of him, every drop of bulky, efficient muscle.

“I’m not shy,” she says, bleeding defensive and winding herself deeper into her blankets. “I just don’t feel the need to parade around topless, and it’s so cold here. Just looking at you is making me colder.”

“I’m in my personal quarters,” he says. “I'm not going to comport myself as if I'm at your beck and call."

But he redresses regardless, pulling on a clean white shirt. It's odd to see him in white.

“Do you enjoy watching me?” he asks.

“What kind of a question is that?" she demands.

“Must have been lonely, out there in Jakku," he says, conversationally. "Surrounded by scum and the dregs of society, creatures so foul they’re only tempting because the alternative is starving alone.”

“Do I not look like someone who starved?”

He turns to look at her, and for the first time he acknowledges that she is almost wholly under her blanket. He isn't smiling; she doesn't think she's ever seen him smile. She could flinch, realizing she has invited his scrutiny, and scrutinize he does, even though her arms are clasped to her chest and the blanket obscures her to her ears. Maybe he just sees the shape of her through it, the bony point of her shoulder, the gentle slope of her skinny hips, but he certainly takes his time looking.

“I imagine you haven't eaten a decent meal in years," he says. And then, a little pithy: "Not for the lack of trying."

"You don't know anything about starving," she tells him. 

"I know more than you'd think," he says. "I have always felt starved for something."

"At least your belly was full," she retorts, and she turns her back to him.

"That’s not the kind of starving that cuts the deepest." There's a little roll to his voice, a familiarity, when he adds: "You know that."

She does –– she's afraid even now that if she closes her eyes and lets the connection waiver between this world and the one of her dreams, she will find herself in the snow again, warmed by her own sweat and the impervious heat of the lightsaber mere inches from her nose. Everything will be red and blue, red and blue and black and blinding, _blinding_ light. And there, while she is dreaming, he might overtake her this time. Maybe she would even welcome it, if he didn't submit to her first.

She turns again to look at him, at the ugly scar down his face, the crater so deeply grooved and cauterized that even synth skin could not fill the gap. That's her work.

Rey wonders if she is so similarly marked on the inside, along the crevasses of her brain, but she decides not. He's not so accomplished as to leave any lasting impact on her, she decides.

Besides — no matter what happens, two starving people can’t sate each other, and so someday she’ll put him behind her.

 

⁌⚔⁍

 

She’s on the cusp of drifting off when she feels him again.

Not quite him, actually, but she feels the blanket move beside her, as if something very large is in bed with her. Whatever it is, it makes no contact. For a moment she lays there, feeling the blanket shift behind her. She closes her eyes, to concentrate, to will it _away_ , but instead, there it is, a firming of his presence, undeniable.

No, she feels _him._

 _In bed_ with her.

He’s breathing deeply, sucking back air like he’s been drowning.

“Kylo?” she says.

She turns to look. He's nestled in his own blankets, on his side. Under the blanket, his arm moves frantically back and forth, pumping, and she feels frozen on the spot until her brain catches up and tells her _exactly_ what she's seeing. She's never watched a man do this before. Watching him jerk himself is oddly impassive, she feels involved, somehow. It’s not like rubbing her clit, but she feels aroused just as same as she would, hand buried between her thighs in her little camp in Jakku.

She should feel revolted, but she doesn't. Admitting it to herself is like testing how far back she can bend her fingers, but he's less monstrous now, more human. He isn't just a black mass looming into her space, but now he's a man in body, if not in emotional maturity. 

And seeing him masturbate himself, well... it's odd to see him so vulnerable.

It changes things just the slightest bit more.

The boundaries have shifted, for better or for worse. 

Rey isn't sure she likes it; it was a great deal to her, to create boundaries in the first place. This slow practice of confronting them and dismantling them has felt like the opposite of what she should be doing. 

She should be pushing him away but instead, she's curious. The sensation she knows only as the Force prickles under her skin, something like the way she's felt grass growing under her fingertips, or sensed tiny, fragile lives growing in the nests lining the cliffs. Something in him bleeds into her too, and she feels a tension in her right arm, and a lovely little pressure in her groin.

"Ben?" she says, a little more terse.

He jumps like a startled mouse, and a little noise escapes him. It's like nothing she's ever heard out of him, and his eyes land on her wide open and angry. Caught watching, she feels pressed to defend herself. She turns away as he does, and she feels him bunching the blankets to better cover himself. While she could linger on the _great_ Kylo Ren being _startled_ , there's something much more pressing to address. 

"Don’t you have any shame?” she demands.

"Don't _you?_ " he replies, curtly, but they both know the answer to that one.

"You'd better be dreaming and not deliberately using the Force to crawl into my bed while doing... _that!_ " she utters, under her breath.

He turns. He's behind her, technically, but she feels his gaze as clearly as if he were standing in front of her. There is something exposing about it, even under her blanket, his expression is that same peculiar, thousand-yard stare, his eyes sallow, his mouth soft. Still as a statue.

His eyes focus, and he frowns.

"This isn't _my_ doing," he says. Accusatory, but defensive, too. “I don’t dream about you that way. Maybe this is _your_ dream."

She's not sure what to say to that, but just the suggestion moves her to scowl.

"I would never!" she spits.

He ignores her, drifting off into that stony silence.

For a moment she just waits for the connection to vanish, to drift away, but the two of them are trapped with each other, bonded. He's moody, and Rey is sure he's sour for multiple reasons. She contemplates going for a walk, but the rain still pounds down on the roof of her hut, and even if she wasn't naked, she's too cold to move further from him. 

Even if she did, would it matter? What does it matter if he's inches away or feet away? He's really lightyears away, his presence here a ghost meant to slip under her skin. 

He just slips away.

 

⁌⚔⁍

 

The rain has barely let up by dawn, but with the sunlight streaming through, it's just the slightest bit more bearable. Rey sits on the front step, sheltered by the doorframe. Her clothing is stiff but dry, having laid out by the fire all night. She's really not enjoying this thala siren milk, having seen where it has come from, but it's rich and luxurious for a scavenger all the same.

"I don't want to talk about last night," he says, bursting into her mind.

"Were you having a _dream?_ " she snorts.

"It was _your_ dream," he says. It's a little defensive, like it would reflect better on him to walk in her dreams instead of dreaming of her. He can't win either way.

" _My_ dream?" she repeats. "I don't think so, but we don't have to talk about it, no."

Kylo Ren says curtly: "Good, because there's _nothing_ to talk about."

For some reason, she finds herself laughing. It's short and sharp but a laugh nonetheless, and when he leaves her again, she only laughs harder.

She's not sure how to feel about this change in boundaries, but for this very moment, laughing is enough.


End file.
